Tasenda

His bag was light One small dirty brown envelope But his shoulders weighed heavily As he walked through The desolate streets Littered with army men And  stray dogs -- His gait heavy, the men Stopped him and searched Looking for stones in his pockets For the weight made Him walk slowly But all he carried was One small dirty brown envelope -- The muddy slushy road That led to a desolate house Surrounded by wails and Other small houses The trek became more treachrous With each step, the bag with the One small dirty brown envelope became heavier -- When he walked in The wailing stopped As a small kid stared at the Anonymous man with the One small dirty brown envelope -- He had been too late, the One small dirty brown envelope Was too late There would be no goodbye No tearfull final re-unions -- the one dirty brown envelope had a small carefully folded paper its edges betraying the shaki

I wonder If the sky turned red this evening, in Kashmir When people sat alone in their thoughts tears in their eyes listening to the muezzin whose calls seemed far away I wonder if the silence of night is broken only by sighs, in Kashmir phones ringing with rumors as others sit, long way away rum addled, staring  at empty glasses as the night is cut in half by the marching soldiers boots I wonder If the ink refuses to  stain the paper, in Kashmir each drop blotting into its own darkness The scribes scratch late into the night pouring their blood  on the papers when the ink refuses to write I wonder if Mothers staring out  of windows now, in Kashmir staring, whispering  like a chant, 'one day  it can be him, one day it can be him' --- For أفضل